sweet talking
by suzybishops
Summary: She never loved him. Not in the way the stars exploded in her eyes, the sun rose for her, the moon glowed on her skin. And especially not in the way he loved her.


**sweet talking**

* * *

><p>Since the first time they met, they burned.<p>

Seared and pressed into cold flesh and melted down lava, mottling into dark bruises, and static air condensed between lovelier than thou kisses (_would you, could you_) and the almost ashes of flames that can never be put out. They are a cry into the night, that can't be heard and an abhorrent scream in a too quiet house.

Darkness was made for them.

They just burned too much. And when the ashes were finally done and ground into flecks of blackblackblack, sprinkled on the floor in heaps, what was there left?

;

He never told her, because he was always a smart fellow (_not smart enough to abstain from the seduction of Massie Block, but smart_) and he knew the consequences if he said the L-word (it's too real, too much, do you even know what l-l-love is? she would stutter, one hand pointedly on her hip and the other holding a flimsy cigarette to her delicate rose-bud lips. An attempt to return their normal galaxy: him demanding more, she evading, because she's less) and though he put up routine that he could easily let her go, and needed her too much. For she made the loneliness go away (or at least hollow out), because loneliness is always lurking in the background, waiting for him in the darkness, under the covers, when Massie's gone for the night.

;

He kind of knows he'll be bound to her forever, attached with a splintered wood stake and half-closed eyelids and delirious half-grins on, and maybe—he thinks—that'll be enough for the decades they grow old, together or apart. Maybe just knowing they'll burn in sin together is enough to outlast the loneliness (but what if it doesn't, what if he gets scared)—but he's not. _I'M NOT SCARED_, he swears—(what if the stars and moon and the sun unleash her, how could they not? She's too beautiful and persuasive and _ohnonono_—). He doesn't dare say it out loud though. The night (darkness) only confirms his fears, with no one to tell him otherwise.

;

He wishes for rain or hail, something—just something—to end this drought. The heat and the crusty, ridged edges of mounted-up resentment, and just let there be happiness and love and let it be _loud _(it's too quiet at night for his taste).

She likes boys—never men (they would catch onto her ways)—and she likes _a lot_ of them (_Josh, Derrick, Kemp, Todd_—he can taste them all on her lips or on her skin in some way, whether it's cherries or Ralph Lauren, even the sweat stains from soccer, or the goalie hand-prints). Uncertainty is better, no one to stay honest and truthful too, because lies — _lies_ tell a story. A beautifully orchestrated lie upon lie and fuck and kiss and it just ends up crashing down, like a fragile constructed house of cards. He sees through it all, the blurred images of not enough affection during her childhood, not enough hugs and kisses and playtime with daddy and mommy—so she loves mortifying them because then she gets yells and screams and punishment and that's almost enough to sate her. Almost.

He wishes his parents warned him about girls like her.

;

He thinks it constantly—why are we even together? (Although they're not really together, it's more out of convenience _for_ _her_.) Because he can't argue with her, she's got everything on her side (_the stars and moon and the sun_) and he's kidding himself if he thinks she'll give up the lies and the games and the boys and stop dealing unfaithful cards, for _him_.

That's laughable. Completely ridiculous for him to even entertain that thought, for it to even plague his mind for a second (a second he can't take back). But he can't stop it—it just leaps into his thoughts without an invitation (to the party, the cold, cruel party) and can't escape him for all he's worth. He really thinks it's immensely unfair— he has this pain and he's just drowning in it and he can't share it with anyone.

;

One day, (and it seems like such an ordinary day, you don't see how it could be any different, but it is) Massie loses control.

She falls apart into him and screams at him, and she's all, "You ruined me, Cam," her cheeks are flushed, a contrast to his turquoise and emerald eyes, "you made me into something I didn't want to be," her hair's a mess, and her mascara is smeared across her eyelids, "A constant."

His head hurts, and there's constant buzzing between his ears, threaded into his vertebrae and he finds it so hard to care about her, "God, Massie. My sanity... it's... it's _gone_. You came in, and you swept me up, and took everything from me. My friends, my security... my heart. You took it. So, can you just shut up, because it feels like my sanity is gone." And it does.

"Fuck, Cam," her voice is straining against the confines, reaching new highs, "Just fuck you, and fuck _your loneliness_, and fuck _your insecurities_." She says it like she has them too, like the world doesn't love her (_the stars and the moon and the sun_).

Wickedness is boxed up into his heart, and he wants her to feel it, "Massie—Massie, Massie, Massie... It's all about Massie," his smile is cold and bitter, and the world can't save her and _he loved her_, "Can't you see it? No, of course you can't. You're such a manipulative bitch. You don't deserve anything more than pain," —the pain he has, he's willing to share— "What's wrong with you? Gosh, you're just... you're just..." he can't see her, she clashes and shimmies around his eyesight, "and I was in love with you." He shakes his head, laughing wildly, as if the idea is just ridiculous.

(Maybe it is.)

He laughs and he takes a swig of the bourbon nearby, and he laughs and he drinks, pretending he's not scared of himself—he's not. I'M NOT SCARED, he swears (on his life)—he's not afraid that they've been broken apart. That now she's running wild, while he's still on the stake, stale features on his face, and blood seeping through his translucent skin.

He doesn't notice how she stands still, fingers threaded into her hair, her face in frozen stillness.

He just keeps laughing, because he's _not_ scared. He swears.

;

The last time they met, they burned.

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><p><span>note<span>- this is demented, and unhinged and really fucking weird. my beta was it's just real—she's amazing. please do not favorite without reviewing.


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